by Rita Lakin
“Later. I don’t know. I’ll see.”
“Listen, I need help. Give me some advice.” Hoping I can get her interested in something, anything, I grab a cup, too, and sit next to her at my tiny dinette table.
The room is so undersized that just sitting down, we are nearly rubbing shoulders. When each of us first moved into our apartments, our description of the kitchens was that it was almost like living in a motor home. One person in here is comfortable. Two, we have to take turns moving and changing places. Three is a crowd and four’s a mob scene.
“It’s the new case. I’m trying to reach this woman who will not answer her phone. All I get is her machine. How do I make her talk to me? I’ve already learned she lives behind a locked gate. I know she won’t open the door to a stranger.”
Evvie, not terribly interested, tosses out, “When all else fails, try honesty. Leave her a message that explains what you want. And just keep phoning until she picks up.”
Evvie glances at my last Sunday’s crossword puzzle, which stays on my table until it’s finished.
She picks up my pen and fills in one of the clues. “Nine down, ‘state of pure pleasure,’ is ‘elated.’ ” Suddenly, the word for me is elated, too. Evvie’s actually showing a bit of animation. I look over her shoulder and take the pen and fill in another.
“That gives me my across word. Thanks. And you know, what you just said is a good idea. I’m going to try it. We can take turns badgering her.”
For a moment she hesitates, and then she smiles. “Include a turkey sandwich and you’remon.”
Without having to get up, I swivel around and open the fridge and take out sandwich stuff. Evvie gets up, walks three steps to the stove, and puts up another pot of coffee. I hold my breath. Please don’t let her change her mind.
I pick up the cordless phone and dial again. Naturally, it’s Dr. Silverstone’s machine. While making her sandwich, Evvie nods her head, encouraging me.
“Linda, my name is Gladdy Gold. I am a private investigator. Your parents hired me to find out why you won’t attend their anniversary party. They seem very concerned. Please pick up so we can talk. I will keep calling until you do. All I want is an answer and then I’ll stop pestering you. Please.” I wait, but nothing happens. Finally I hang up.
When Evvie finishes eating her sandwich she presses the redial button. “Hello, Linda, this is Evvie Markowitz, Gladdy’s partner. We’re actually sisters. We’re really very nice people, and part of our job is to help others solve their problems and be happy. Please pick up.” She waits awhile, and then hangs up, too.
“Well done,” I say. “But we’re taking a big risk. This may really get her mad. She might just turn the machine off.”
Evvie shrugs. “Maybe she will and maybe she won’t.”
Evvie, still sitting, digs in the fridge and finds last night’s leftover peach pie. I am near tears of happiness. This is the first time she’s shown any interest in eating. And I’m so glad I gave into gluttony and bought it. “A la mode?” I ask as I reach up over her to the freezer and whip out the vanilla ice cream.
She smiles. “You are so bad. Of course I want it.”
I dial again. “Hi, Linda, this is the annoying Gladdy Gold again. I tried reading your book last night. I didn’t understand a lot of it, but if we ever meet, I want to ask you—do your father’s techniques really work? Isn’t denial of an illness a cop-out? I’ll hold, maybe you’re in the bathroom and can’t get to the phone quickly.” After counting to ten, I hang up.
Evvie claps. “Great. Work on her ego. Maybe she’ll get intrigued enough to answer your question.”
“Think we should get the girls up here and let them take turns? I’d love to hear how they’d talk to her.”
Evvie, always the actress, says, “Don’t bother; I can play all their parts.” She pretends to hold the phone to her ear. “Listen, you twerp, my name is Ida and just who do you think you are? Call me or else!”
I giggle. “Or else what?”
“I’ll huff and puff ’til I blow your house down.”
“Wait,” I say, knocking my shoulder into hers as we giggle together. “Let me be Sophie.” Now I pretend to dial. “Well hello, Linda. Just because you live in that great big house and you have expensive clothes, what makes you think you have any taste? Let me come and be your fashionista.” I’m really getting into it now. Waving my arms, I say, “I’ll give you fuchsias, and scarlet reds. Gold velvet—I’ll make your house sing!”
A timid voice says, “Can I play me?”
We look up at the open kitchen window and the girls are standing there, watching us. They are not smiling. Though Bella is trying to be a good sport.
Evvie and I burst into laughter.
Within seconds they are inside.
Within seconds the room is filled to overflowing.
“How long have you been listening?” I ask, hiccupping, as I try to stop laughing.
Evvie leans down, her arms on the table, her body shaking.
Sophie automatically opens the fridge and peers in.
Bella attempts to find a spot where she might stand.
Ida, half in the hallway, grabs the phone and presses the redial button. “If you’re going to imitate me, at least do it right.” She speaks into the receiver, her voice haughty and businesslike. “This is Ida Franz of the Gladdy Gold and Associates Detective Agency—”
Ida suddenly stops, in shock. “Someone’s on the line!” As if it were on fire, she throws the phone at me while Evvie jumps up to press the speakerphone button on the phone base. Bella tries to move out of the way and at the same time Sophie tries to push past her to get out. Bella is knocked into the open fridge. Sophie tries to grab her as a box of cream cheese, a bag of bagels, and a carton of orange juice drop to the floor.
“Hello? Hello? Is someone there?”
While I’m trying to right the tumbling phone, I yell into the speaker, “Yes, this is Gladdy Gold. Are you Linda?”
The voice answers. “No, I’m her assistant, Marjory. Dr. Silverstone says you’ve made your point.”
Evvie and I look at one another, chagrined.
“If you are available this afternoon at three P.M. she will see you at her home. I assume you know where, that is if you are the owners of that very old, very dirty Chevy that was parked across the street all day yesterday.”
“We’ll be there,” I say.
Evvie and I high-five one another. Bella and Sophie are busy putting the dropped things back in the fridge. Ida, arms crossed, legs akimbo, scowls at us. “You owe me big,” she says ominously.
Evvie and I laugh again. And Ida joins in. “Gotcha!”
Bella, clutching a mayonnaise jar she can’t find room for adds, “I don’t think your car is that ugly.”
LINDA’S SECRET
Linda Silverstone’s assistant, Marjory, leads us through her massive house. Everything looks modern and expensive. And brand-new. Highly polished and spotless, as if no one ever touched any of the furnishings. It seemed as if it had been done by a decorator who intended it to look perfect forever.
Marjory’s personal color scheme is dark and rigid. Black hair. Black-rimmed glasses. Black pantsuit and shoes. The only color, a red silk scarf. Her back is ramrod straight. Everything, including her prim expression, says no nonsense allowed here.
Bella and Sophie hold hands, oohing and ahhing at everything they see. Gaping up at the chandeliers. Sliding their shoes along the shiny mosaic entryway.
I am thrilled Evvie agreed to come along. Ida has mixed emotions, I suppose, now that Evvie seems to be back with us and Ida’s no longer number one.
We travel down a long, elegantly carpeted hall to arrive at what must be Linda Silverstone’s office. Wall-to-wall bookcases. Buttery leather chairs, each with its own Tiffany-style reading lamp. Lovely selections of artwork. I spot Linda’s books displayed along a bottom shelf, next to a wall with her framed awards and degrees. All in all, a room to impress. Through the ba
ck windows I can see what must be a huge, elegant garden.
And finally, there is the elusive Linda seated behind her desk, a gorgeous French antique with gilt-edge trim. I wonder if it’s an original.
Linda is what one would call a handsome woman. Not beautiful, but regal-looking, seeming younger than her sixty years. From the pictures in their books, she resembles her austere father.
We stand in the middle of the room, waiting for permission to sit. Or not.
“So you got your wish,” Linda greets us sarcastically, her face held stiffly, her voice pinched and slow. “You may be sorry. Sit.”
We quickly scramble for seats.
Marjory moves close to her side and attacks.
“You had no right to bother Dr. Silverstone with your ridiculous calls.”
Ida is about to argue. I quickly squeeze her arm and whisper, “A little honey first, honey...”
I meet Linda’s piercing look. “Please forgive us for the drastic methods, but you do make it difficult to make contact.”
Linda whispers to Marjory. Marjory says, “Dr. Silverstone wants to know how much her father is paying you to spy on her. She says she’ll double it for you to mind your own business.”
Ida can’t stand another second. “Hey, just who do you think you’re talking to?”
By now I’m aware something is very wrong. Why isn’t Linda speaking for herself? Evvie looks at me; I can tell she’s thinking the same thing.
Marjory, the mouthpiece, charges, “I’m talking to five elderly busybodies who have no right to impinge upon her privacy.”
Suddenly I realize Linda’s head is quivering up and down and from side to side.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“No, I am not all right!” Linda’s voice is equally shaky; the words come out slowly and with great difficulty.
With that Linda is helped out from behind her desk. Marjory positions her behind a metal walker and places a tartan plaid blanket around her shoulders. We become aware that her entire body is moving convulsively. Marjory is about to speak again, but Linda stops her with a glance.
She is very hard to watch. Bella and Sophie want to turn away, but the expression on my face tells them not to. Ida and Evvie are as startled as I am.
Now I realize what it cost Linda to keep such control when we first walked in, but not anymore—she lets us have it, full blast.
Her body writhes, her face contorts, her head bobs every which way as she struggles to get the words out. “Not a pretty sight, is it, all these tics and tremors?”
For a moment, none of us speak. “May we ask what’s wrong with you?” Evvie asks gently.
“Parkinson’s.”
Sophie gets excited. “Just like that actor, Michael J. Fox!”
Linda admits sadly, “Yes. Like him.” She indicates to Marjory to speak.
“Linda’s illness has progressively worsened this year. She no longer goes out in public.”
My eyes tear up. “Your parents don’t know, do they?”
She shakes her head with a spastic motion. “I don’t want them to know.”
“So that’s why you refuse to go to their party?” Ida asks.
Now it’s a shaky nod.
Marjory continues. “Now you understand why she cannot appear at a function where probably a hundred people will show up.”
Sophie’s voice is tentative. “But Michael J. Fox is on TV and a million people can see him shake.”
To our shock, Linda starts to cry. Marjory reaches over and pats her shoulder.
For a long moment, none of us speak.
Linda indicates she wants to talk again. It takes a very long time for her to get all these words out but she is determined to explain. We have to concentrate hard to understand her.
“Do you know what it’s like to have parents like mine? Health is their life’s work. They hike ten miles a day. They are careful of every scrap of food they eat. My father does the Polar Bear Plunge in the ocean every January first. You were right on the phone when you said what they preach is denial. They do not like to face illness, and mine cannot be hidden anymore. I cannot deny it and make it go away. I will not be an embarrassment to them in front of everyone they know.”
Bella and Sophie are tearing up. I’m having trouble staying dry, myself.
With Marjory’s help, Linda gets herself back behind her desk once again to hide much of the shakiness. “My father will take one look at me and turn away in disgust.”
Marjory steps forward, indicating it is time for us to leave. “Need I say, you will not mention anything you have seen or heard here to anyone? Especially to her parents.”
I get up and face Linda squarely, then take a deep breath. “When will you tell them, Linda? Or will you wait until you’re dead and they can find out by reading the obits?”
Linda stares at me in rage. “How dare you...?”
Ida and Evvie jump up and move closer to my side to support me.
Linda, stuttering hard, can barely get the words out. She pounds impotently on her desk. “How can you be so cruel? Can you imagine what it will be like for them to have their only child die before they do? What it will do to them?”
“No,” I answer her, “I can’t, and I hope I never have to find out, but as a parent, I tell you it would be worse to not know when my child is ill. To not be able to be there for her. To not be able to help her through the hard time ahead.” I pause for a moment. “I don’t think you give your parents enough credit.”
“Yeah,” Ida says, “you’ll be killing them along with you.”
I look at Ida. Someday she is going to have to tell me the truth about what happened between her and her kids.
Evvie’s voice is equally passionate. “They’re all you have. Don’t turn away from anyone who loves you. Give them the chance to show how they feel.”
Linda bows her head. “And what if they fail me? What if they turn away?”
I walk to the desk and lean over toward her.
“Right now you believe you are all alone in the world. If they fail you, then you’ll know you’re right. But what if you’re wrong?”
I reach out and touch her hands. “I am so sorry. Sorry for your illness and sorry we total strangers have invaded your home and been so hard on you. Forgive us. We won’t bother you again.”
I join the girls and we head for the door.
Evvie turns and says, “Good luck to you, Linda.”
Marjory lets us out. She doesn’t say a word.
We get into my car, but it’s a while before I’m able to drive.
Ida reaches over so she can face me from the rear. She raises her eyebrows. “ ‘A little honey, honey?’ ”
Evvie defends me from her front seat. “Sometimes tough love works better.”
I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have done that; I had no right. But I kept thinking if one of my family were suffering like that, I’d have to know!”
“That poor girl,” Bella says from the seat behind Evvie. “God help her.”
No one says anything on the way home.
JERSEY JACK
Jack hopes he’ll find Barbara Sutterfield sitting at a patio table at the rear of the Nabisco factory. The weather is still playing at Indian summer and it’s pleasant outdoors. If he’s wrong, he’ll try the inside cafeteria. He hopes he won’t have to do that. Then he might have to go through the rigmarole of the front office and state his business and the probability of being refused admittance. Maybe he’ll get lucky back here.
He glances around, assessing what he sees, what he researched about the factory on Route 208. Basic bland nondescript cement building. Supports some nine hundred workers. Been around since 1958, and one of the three largest factories of its kind in the country.
There are fifteen or so people sitting outside, taking their lunch break. They are in groups of two or more. He glances around and sure enough, there is one woman eating alone. If his hunch is right—that’s his target.
H
er head is leaned back, taking in the sun. Her feet are resting across a second chair. A half-eaten sandwich remains on a piece of Saran wrap. He assumes she’s a chain smoker. There’s a cigarette in her mouth right now, and a full ashtray. He studies her, waiting until she notices him. She looks about late forties, tall, too thin, long dark hair that seems like it doesn’t get to a beauty salon much, if at all. She wears jeans and a T-shirt underneath her white lab coat. There’s a weariness reflected in her body language. Her shoulders slump. Her hands hang loosely. Looks as if life hasn’t been too good for Barbara Sutterfield, cousin of the elusive Patty Dennison, sole witness to the murder of Jack Gold.
What he’s found out about her are two divorces and two young children ages four and eight, from different husbands. They’re cared for by a next-door neighbor while she works. A deadend kind of life.
When she sees Jack standing there, she drops her legs off the chair and narrows her eyes. Her shoulders stiffen. Like an animal sensing danger, she readies for attack.
Time to look menacing. Time to say hello.
“Barbara Sutterfield?”
She shoots him a sardonic smile. “As if you didn’t know.” Her voice is hoarse from years of nicotine abuse. “You’re the busy little beaver cop, asking too many questions all over town.”
“That’s me.”
She grazes her eyes up and down his body. “Aren’t you a little old to be playing cops and robbers?” She reminds Jack of wire fencing. Tough. Brittle. Unyielding.
People clammed up at the coffee shop, library, post office, grocery stores. What a tough town. What a tough broad.
“The case I’m on is pretty old, too.”
“So I’ve heard. Ever heard the saying—let sleeping dogs lie?”
“It’s a cliche and I don’t believe in cliches. Especially when I’m trying to right a very old wrong.” He moves closer. “May I sit down?”
She hesitates, and then she shrugs. He pulls over another chair and straddles it.
He sniffs the air. “It’s really something the way you can smell the factory blocks away. I bet kids must love smelling chocolate cookies all over town.”
